The Answer is Always Yes
by Chasing Rabbits
Summary: After it comes out that Wendy's started dating a new guy while she's off in college, Stan falls into yet another one of his depressive states. Kyle, as per usual, has to set him straight.


I wrote this as kind of a **supplement** to my other fic, **Bright Lights and the Big City**. Worry not, it's **totally Stan and Kyle-centric** and pretty much a s**tand-alone. **

Mostly I just can't believe I did this. Sorry if there are any errors, but it's almost four in the morning and I can always go back and fix. Yes? Yes.

Like "bright lights and the big city", the title comes from a **Cee Lo Green** song called **Satisfied**.

Enjoy.

* * *

><p>They're not as close as they once were.<p>

Then again, it's hard to be close with someone who's pretty much given up on being happy. Sure, there are people who are worse off, and at least Stan tries to distract himself from his own cynicism by playing his guitar (and learning piano now), but Kyle still has some trepidation about it. He loves Stan—he always has and he knows that he probably always will—but it's hard to spend time with someone who makes it a well-known fact that he thinks everyone and everything is shit.

When they hear that Wendy has a new boyfriend not a week after she's been in school, Stan spirals almost as badly as he did years before when all of this first became an issue. He goes from pretty okay to a fucking train wreck in a matter of days, and Kyle is so concerned with getting his college applications done on time that he doesn't notice until Kenny comes into his room one autumnal Saturday and slams his laptop shut.

"Kenny, what the fuck!" Kyle shouts. "I could've been working on something I couldn't save."

"I'm worried about Stan," is all Kenny says as he pushes Kyle's laptop back and sits up on his desk. "I've got a bad fucking feeling about this whole goddamned thing, dude."

"You get bad feelings about everything," Kyle rolls his eyes and pushes a few pens around. Kenny's looking at him in that way he does, in that way he manages to bore into your very soul (if you believed a look could do that kind of thing), and Kyle falters under it because that's what everyone does when Kenny looks at them like that.

"Dude, I can't fucking deal with him right now," he says. "I've got enough to worry about without having to go over there and do damage control."

"Bullshit," Kenny scowls and puts one of his bulky-ass boots on the chair, right between Kyle's legs. "You and I both know that the only reason you don't want to go over there is because it bums you the fuck out to see him like this."

"Well, if you and I both know that then why the fuck are you trying to get me to go over there?" Kyle asks, eyebrows high on his forehead. Kenny leans in close, so their noses are almost touching, and puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Because I would rather be sad for a few hours than have to deal with one of my best friends killing himself because he thinks no one gives a shit," Kenny says very plainly and ends with a smile that's not really a smile. Kyle feels his insides twist and curl at the thought.

"You," he begins, and then stops, like saying anything is somehow going to jinx it. "You really think it's gotten that bad?"

Kenny's smile turns into nothing more than a sad upturn of his lips as he hops off the table and pulls Kyle up to his feet. That's enough of an answer for Kyle, and suddenly feels a sense of urgency as he goes to grab his jacket.

"Goddamn, it's just sad to see him when he's like this," Kyle says and grabs his keys off of his dresser. "It's like those crack baby commercials they used to show when we were kids... It's so fucking depressing."

"Yeah, well," Kenny says as they make their way down the stairs and out to Kyle's car. "Let's hope you don't want to fuck those crack babies as bad as you want to fuck Stan."

"Classy," Kyle deadpans and ducks into his car. People have been making comments like this for years, and Kyle's getting pretty tired of them. Not because he's afraid of being gay, or because he's angry that people would assume that of him, but because it's just not clever anymore. Kyle's of the mind that sexuality doesn't matter, maybe because he's been hanging around the self-proclaimed bisexual Kenny McCormick for far too long, but come on, there are worse things a human being could be than gay.

And there are worse people Kyle could end up with than Stan, so it's almost a compliment really.

They speed along the residential streets, a route that they could have easily walked had Kenny not put it into Kyle's head that Stan was dangling from the rafters in his attic. Kyle pulls a pretty shitty parking job in front of the house, but he really can't find it in himself to care. He's worked up now, and if there was one thing you didn't do to a Broflovski, it was work them up for no reason.

He and Kenny dash around to the back of the house and in through the kitchen door which, as it turns out, almost gives Sharon a heart attack.

"Hi, boys," she laughs slightly once she gathers her bearings. "I actually don't know if Stanley is awake yet. Do you…" she looks slightly concerned as she looks up in the general direction of Stan's room. "Is he okay? The school keeps calling and saying he's skipping classes. Whenever I ask about it he won't talk to me."

"We were actually here to talk to him about it," Kyle says and stuffs his hands in his pockets while Kenny nods vehemently beside him. "I think Wendy got a new boyfriend and he's taking it kind of hard."

"Oh for the love of God," Sharon rolls her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. "You boys know I love Wendy to the ends of the earth, but if I had a nickel for every time Stanley got into one of his moods because of that girl…"

Neither Kenny nor Kyle know how to respond to that, so they both just nod in half-assed affirmations, Kenny pausing to give Sharon a comforting squeeze on the shoulder (though Kyle knows it's only so he can feel the strap of her bra), and run through the living room and up the stairs.

"Stan!" Kyle calls as he pounds on the door. He looks over at Kenny, who's eyeing a picture of Shelly up on the wall, and knocks again. "Stan, come on, it's just me and Kenny."

There's a slight pause before Stan's reply, a soft but sure "go away" on the other side of the door. Kyle knocks again, this time looking to Kenny for some sort of guidance. Kenny just rolls his eyes and fishes something out of his pockets. Kyle smiles when he realizes that it's a bobby pin.

"Gotta do fucking everything around here," Kenny mutters as he bends and inserts the pin into the lock on Stan's door. "I hope you bitches know you'd be fucking lost without me."

He punctuates the statement with clicking the lock and opening the door. It's two in the afternoon and the only light inside the room is coming from Stan's tiny television. Kyle pushes the door open further, seeing that everything in Stan's room is indeed bathed in flickering white-blue light.

"Dude, how in the shit is it so dark in here?" Kyle asks as he and Kenny step around piles of dirty clothes, wadded up tissues, and—Kyle gulps—empty cans.

"Foil on the windows," Kenny says as he moves around Stan's bed and pulls the curtains wide open. "Either this is depression or he's started running a meth lab."

"You'd know," Stan mutters and settles lower in his bed. Kenny chooses not to reply with words, just tears through the foil with his fingernails and lets in the afternoon light. Kyle groans when he hears Stan let out an exaggerated hiss.

"Stan, sit up," he says.

"Shut the fuck up, Kyle," Stan grumbles and pulls his comforter over his head. Kyle and Kenny exchange a look before each grabbing a corner of the covers and pulling them off of the lump of Stan's body.

"Rise and shine, sleepy head," Kenny grins, though only until he actually sees Stan.

Kyle can't stop looking at him. He's in a baggy old sweater and flannel pajama pants—the same set that he was in the last time Kyle saw him about a week ago when he'd come to drop off the instructions for their first English paper of the year. Kyle had the sneaking suspicion that he hadn't changed since then.

"Dude, have you showered today?" Kyle asks as he hauls Stan up into a sitting position.

"Have you showered this week?" Kenny interjects, more to himself than anyone in particular. Stan just throws Kyle's arms off of him and whines.

"Leave me alone," he pleads and buries his face in his hands. "Seriously, guys, I'm not in the fucking mood for your shit."

"Some fucking way to talk about us trying to help you," Kyle scowls and looks over to Kenny. He's looking a little uncomfortable, and Kyle gets it—growing up around what he did, it can't be easy to see conflict anywhere—but Stan fucking needs this and if Kenny can't handle it he can leave.

"Get up," Kyle says and moves to turn on the light. Stan doesn't listen, just flops back onto the bed and puts a pillow over his face. "Oh, that's good. Smother yourself. 'cause Wendy's got a new boyfriend so that's it for you. The world's obviously done with you, so get the fuck out. Good plan."

"Dude," Kenny says, looking at Kyle like he's just kicked a three-legged puppy. Kyle just shakes his head and walks back over to Stan.

"Stan," he begins and sits on the bed beside him. When Stan doesn't budge, he pokes him in the stomach. Stan squirms, because he's got a little pudge on him and he hates it when people go so far as to remind him of it, but doesn't sit back up.

"How much have you had today?" Kenny asks, hands in his sweater pockets as he leans back against the wall. Stan removes the pillow from his face and glares at Kenny.

"None of your fucking business," he snarls just in time for Sharon to appear at Stan's door, all dressed in her coat and hat and ready to head out the door. She sees the cans on the floor and the piles of clothes, but doesn't comment on them. Instead she just looks at Kyle and Kenny and then to her son, who's gone back to trying to suffocate himself.

"I'm headed to the store, Stanley," she says. "I was wondering if you needed anything."

"Actually," Kenny pipes up, "I have to go grab a carton of milk for my mom. Can I ride with you?"

"Oh, of course you can, Kenny," Sharon frowns curiously. Kyle knows it's only so he can get out of there—Kenny really hates when he and Stan are upset with each other and, come to think of it, never hesitates to find a way out when they get like this. Sharon doesn't know that, though. As smart as she is, she's kind of oblivious when it comes to Kenny… most people are.

"Stanley?"

"I'm fine," he snaps from behind his pillow and Sharon nods. She looks at Kyle again, who does his best to give her a reassuring look before both she and Kenny leave. Kyle gets up and closes the door behind them and leans on it. Maybe if he's quiet enough, Stan will think he's alone again.

"I know you're still here, asshole," Stan says and throws his pillow off to the side. He stands up and runs his fingers through his greasy hair. He's about half an inch shorter than Kyle still, and a hell of a lot stockier. Then again, he's always been like that. Even when they were kids, it had always been apparent that Stan was solid. Not fat like Cartman, or chubby like Clyde, but solid. Kyle kind of always wished Stan was really as solid as he looked.

"So what?" Stan asks. "You're here to help me? Good for you."

"I'm not here for myself," Kyle replies calmly, his voice low. "If anything, what I should be doing for myself right now is finishing my application to Stanford, making a sandwich, and sitting down to watch Sports Night. That's what I _should_ be doing for myself, but instead I'm here risking my sanity, my productivity, and my blood sugar because Kenny thinks you're about to kill yourself."

Stan laughs and braces his hands on his hips, like it's the most ridiculous thing anyone's ever told him.

"He thinks I'm gonna kill myself?" he asks. "And deny the universe the joys of taking a gigantic shit on my face every morning? That's just selfish."

"Is this seriously because Wendy's fucking someone else?" Kyle asks, right eyebrow nearly in his hairline as he stares down Stan. Stan just snarls and starts pushing his dirty clothes into on big pile.

"Whatever, she's a bitch," he sniffs.

"She's not a bitch," Kyle rolls his eyes, voice louder than he'd intended. "You're just too much of a fucking pussy to take heartbreak like a normal-ass human being. That's why you've been hanging onto the same girl for the last nine years."

"How fucking profound," Stan glares at him. "Pardon me while I go take note of it: the motherfucking wisdom of Saint Kyle Broflovski."

"I'm a Jew, we don't have saints," Kyle says, because he's not sure where to go after that. Stan's sarcasm has always been pretty acerbic, but being mean was Kyle's territory. Stan gave too much of a shit about what people thought, usually. Maybe that's where they were in their relationship—Kyle's is the only opinion Stan has stopped caring about.

Stan doesn't look too sure about what to say either, so just continues kicking his clothes around on his floor.

"You know, the least you could do is shit-talk with me," he mutters and Kyle rolls his eyes for what has to be the thousandth time today.

"I'm not gonna shit-talk her because she didn't do anything wrong," he says firmly and pushes off the door. "I don't get you, man. It's like you can't be alone… like, if you don't have a girlfriend, you just fucking break down like that's all you know how to do. You're not just Wendy's boyfriend—"

"Ex-boyfriend," Stan corrects him.

"Who the fuck cares?" Kyle nearly shouts. "Jesus Christ, you are a human being outside of Wendy Testaburger, now start acting like it!"

"Fuck you, Kyle," Stan snaps. "Who are you to even talk? You've had, what, like one girlfriend? You don't know what it's like to have someone be such a big part of your life and then just leave like that."

Kyle is pretty sure all the air has been sucked from his lungs, because he can't retort, can't come back with anything without feeling a little like he wants to cry… or punch something.

Because he has felt that—he's felt exactly all of this because that's exactly what it felt like when they were ten. Because that's how he'd felt when all he wanted was his best friend back so they could laugh and talk and be fucking idiots together. Fuck, this is why he didn't like coming to see Stan when he was like this. Kyle wouldn't exactly call himself an emotional void, but he likes to think he's got them on a pretty tight leash. He doesn't really cry, an even though he's not necessarily happy enough to just laugh for no reason anymore, he still finds himself smiling every once in a while.

He doesn't like coming over to see Stan like this because he knows he'll start crying, and that's exactly what he starts doing. He doesn't cry like the other guys—Cartman still blubbers like a two-year-old when he deigns to commit the unholy act, Kenny sniffles and kind of curls into himself as he mops up his tear tracks with the his sleeve, and Stan cries like any emotionally-retarded depressive would. Kyle cries like he doesn't even know it's happening, and he usually doesn't until he feels his face scrunch up and his tears are rolling down his face.

"Aw," Stan groans. "Aw dude, don't do that."

"Do what?" Kyle asks as he hastily wipes his face. His eyes are still kind of burning, but in all honesty that's probably it with the waterworks. They never last long with him.

"Seriously, dude, you're not an attractive crier," Stan sighs and Kyle flips him off. Stan offers him a tissue, but he declines because, seriously, he's fine. Stan just gives him a look and makes him take one anyway. Kyle mutters a half-assed 'thanks' and blows his nose.

"I don't know how you do it," he says and tosses the tissue into the already over-flowing trashcan by Stan's desk.

"Do what?" Stan asks, arms folded and his face all cast down like he's a battered housewife or something. Actually, with his facial hair coming in like that he's starting to look a little like Randy… or Sonny Bono.

"I don't know how you can be sad all the time," Kyle shrugs and rubs underneath his eyes to make sure there aren't any more ninja tears stealthily making their way onto his face. Stan visibly deflates at the statement and sits on the bed.

"I can't help it, dude," he says softly. "I can't be like you. I can't just be a cold, unfeeling bastard all the time, you know? It works for you, but I've tried it and I just… I can't."

Kyle sighs and sits beside Stan, bringing a hand up to rest on his shoulder.

"For the record, I wish I was less of a cold, unfeeling bastard sometimes," he admits, and then, in a robotic voice, adds "It would make assimilating into human society much easier."

Kyle punctuates this statement with a few little robotic moves that make Stan laugh like he used to when they were kids. Kyle laughs with him because it feels good—it feels right when they have fun together, and he takes it wherever and whenever he can get it. Their laughter dies out and they end with Kyle's arm draped around Stan's shoulder and Stan's head resting in all its greasy glory against Kyle's shoulder.

"Why didn't she want me, dude?" Stan asks suddenly, softly, and Kyle has to shrug, because he really just plain doesn't know.

"She's gotta be crazy," he replies just as softly. "You're a total shithead and I still want you."

He manages to get another laugh at that and pulls Stan into a full-on hug, complete with back-clapping and all the other accoutrement that make up a manly-type hug. It's not how they'd always hugged, but after being called fags a couple hundred times by the time they'd reached middle school, they decided to adjust. Kyle never knew why, and still doesn't know. Holding Stan like he's… well, like he's the fucking love of his life, to be perfectly honest, feels more right than anything else in the world. Which is why they've stopped all the fidgeting and have moved to just holding each other. Which is why Kyle feels more comfortable than he has in forever.

Which is why Kyle cups Stan's face in his hands and pushes their lips together. Because, after all those years of being called a 'fag' and a 'queer' and a 'fucking fairy', Kyle feels it's worth it to at least give it a try. Kyle's always been very logical like that—tally-ho, all in the name of science, pip-pip—and he figures the worst that could happen is Stan throws him off the bed and tells him to get the fuck out.

Something tells him that won't happen, though, and sure enough it doesn't. Stan, despite his disgusting state of un-hygiene, kisses back like he's never kissed before. His lips are soft in contrast with his scruff, his tongue strong and sure against the depressed state of the rest of him… Kyle pulls away feeling a little like someone's slipped something in his drink.

"Whoa," he says, and it's a little clichéd, but that's how he feels so fuck it. Stan looks a little dazed too, but not at all like he wants to talk about it. Just like he wants to do it again, and again, and again.

So Kyle indulges him and leans forward for more. He slips his tongue in past Stan's lips and teeth, sidling along Stan's, licking and stroking like he wants to put every last 'I love you' into this.

Because he loves Stan. He always has and he always will. It's really hard, meeting your soul mate when you're three-years-old, but it's something Kyle's always known. Even when things looked serious between him and Heidi, or between Stan and Wendy (_ha-ha_), Kyle's always known that he and Stan belong together and that it feels wrong when they're apart or when they're fighting or when their lives take over and they just flat out can't see each other.

"Kyle, I—"

"I know," Kyle cuts him off with a kiss. "Me too."

There's no big fanfare, no emotionally purging catharsis, because how can there be when you've known something for so long?

"Fuck," Stan laughs. He's crying a little and Kyle wipes away the tears with his thumbs. "Fuck, dude, I must stink."

"Eh, I had gym with Cartman in freshman year," Kyle shrugs. "I've definitely smelled worse."

Stan laughs and bows their heads together. He looks like he's about to say something until Kyle's phone starts ringing and he sort of just deflates. Kyle hopes that doesn't mean he's never going to hear what Stan wants to say, but he looks at his phone and sees that it's Ike and Ike wouldn't be calling him if something wasn't wrong.

"Hey dude," he says.

"Kyle," Ike's voice breaks over the phone, because he's thirteen and that's what your voice does when you were that age. His mom made him promise not to tease him, but Kyle almost never kept promises to that woman. Not about stupid shit like that, anyway.

"What's up, Peter Brady?"

"Dead reference," Ike shoots back. "My bike got a flat tire. Can you come get me?"

Kyle groans when he hears where Ike is, because it's fucking far and how the fuck did he get all the way out there on his bike, but he promises to be there as soon as possible before he hangs up the phone and gives Stan an apologetic look.

"s'fine," Stan yawns. "I should probably shower and clean up anyway before my mom has a heart attack."

"Good thinking," Kyle nods and, without even thinking, pecks Stan on the lips before he stands.

"Hey, Kyle," Stan begins, following Kyle out of the room and down the stairs. "You think I could maybe come over later?"

"Yeah, sure," Kyle shrugs and stops at the front door. "I mean, I have to work on my applications and everything, but if you don't mind me being on my laptop all night."

"'course not," Stan shakes his head. "Just kind of don't want to be in my room anymore."

"A whole week's your limit, eh?"

"Dick," Stan smiles and gives him a playful shove. Kyle smiles again and this time it's Stan that kisses him.

It's kind of nice, Kyle decides, and concludes that they should pursue this further at the soonest available moment.

**-ooooooooooooooooooooo-**

"It just looks goddamned uncomfortable," Stan remarks, hovering over Kyle's shoulder with a mug of hot chocolate in hand. Kyle's been browsing Youporn for the better part of the last half hour, and this is the first video they've, to put it rather unfortunately, come upon that hasn't been completely contrived-looking. The first handful (again, unfortunate) of videos had been laden with half-hard, bored-looking young men… Kyle hadn't ever really given men much thought in the attractiveness arena, but he knew that he'd at least like them to be engaged, or at the very least hard if they were going to try to get a reaction out of him.

"I was reading earlier," Kyle says, at the risk of sounding like a total nerd, "that some people never do it."

"What?"

"Anal."

"Oh."

"Yeah," Kyle nods, "that they just do the other stuff."

"Huh," Stan mutters and straightens up. He'd showered before he'd come, even shaved his face and made himself look like less of a Neanderthal, but he was still wearing a rumpled old t-shirt, a baggy black sweater, and his least becoming pair of jeans. Kyle wasn't exactly a snappy dresser himself, but if depression ever needed a poster child, all they needed to do was tell Stan that an ex was fucking someone else and they were golden.

"Do you…" Kyle clears his throat. "I mean, I'm cool with whatever."

"No, yeah," Stan shakes his head. "Me too. I just don't know what you're cool with."

They look at each other, then to the screen, and back again. Stan is kind of red in his cheeks, though that could just as easily be from the cocoa as it could be from the two muscle men humping like gorillas on Kyle's laptop.

"Dude, do guys find this attractive?" Stan diffuses instead. Don't take it seriously—never take it seriously. The second you take something seriously, the second you make yourself vulnerable; that's what Kenny always says. Kyle tries not to take anything seriously, and for the most part neither does Stan… except they actually take a lot of things seriously and it hardly ever works out in their favor. Kyle gets angry and Stan gets sad.

"You backing out?" Kyle decides to ask, and Stan shakes his head.

"No," he says, tilting his head at the screen. "Just… look at the size of that guy's dick, dude. That's fucking inhuman."

"That's very flattering," Kyle laughs, "but I'm pretty far from having a monster cock."

"Who said you're the one who gets to put it in?" Stan counters, but he cracks a smile when Kyle raises an eyebrow and folds his arms. Kyle can't even say he loves this about Stan, because he loves everything about Stan so that goes without saying, but it's one of those things that really makes his chest hurt.

"Uh," Stan laughs when he realizes that Kyle is looking at him. "What, dude?"

"You still want to do this?" Kyle asks, completely serious this time. Fuck, they're going there. Why are they going there.

"Sure, dude," Stan shrugs and leans against Kyle's desk. "We're super best friends, right?"

And Kyle laughs, because they haven't called each other that in years. Stan laughs too, and that's good. Laughter is good for them, because it makes them feel more comfortable. Stan's laugh sounds like home.

But eventually they both stop laughing and they're just looking at each other. Stan's the one who leans forward first, kissing Kyle to diffuse the tension. It's not the normal way they do that, but if it's getting Stan to pull out of his funk and forget about Wendy, well, Kyle's willing to see how far this can go.

It's not like Stan's unattractive, after all, especially when he's all clean-shaven like that. Kyle's always had an appreciation for aesthetically pleasing things, male or female. It's mostly just that Kyle spends so much time being pissed off at everyone and everything that he doesn't generally have time to stop and think about how pretty things are.

Stan's not pretty. He's attractive, but he's far from what Kyle would consider a pretty guy. People like Butters and that Mormon kid, Gary… those guys were pretty. He saw them at the arcade the other day, standing way too close to each other as Butters played Pacman, talking quietly about something or another… probably some secret that pretty boys kept all to themselves.

Stan follows as Kyle slides out of his chair and onto the floor, and even laughs a little when Kyle accidentally bites down on his tongue. So Kyle isn't exactly an expert in the ways of smooth executions. Whatever. He's seventeen, for shit's sake.

He remembers that Stan's eighteenth birthday is next week and wonders when the hell it was that they started getting so old. He's the oldest guy in class, actually—he'd been held in preschool an extra year because he was so emotionally fragile, even as a little kid, and Sharon had insisted that he stay until he learned how to function properly. Kyle never minded; that was how they'd met, and if that hadn't happened… Kyle guessed it would have anyway. It was a small town and they were _them_.

Kyle didn't like to put too much stock into faith and superstition, just as a general rule, but meeting Stan was about as close to destiny as anything that had ever happened to him.

"Dude, do I seriously get you this hot?" Stan laughs and Kyle realizes he's palming Stan through his jeans, while sporting quite an impressive hard-on himself. He gulps and removes his hands from Stan, moves to adjust himself.

"Not working for you?" he asks like it's not a big deal, like he doesn't want more than anything for Stan to come at him like an insatiable beast in heat. Kyle supposes it'll probably take a little while, because Stan's used to girls, and a girl Kyle is not.

It's kind of a weird thing to want, Kyle knows, but Stan's looking at him with a blank sort of stare and that's never a good thing. Stan knows what he's feeling, always. When he withdraws it usually means he's cooking up some pretty awful thoughts that usually result in a lot of heavy drinking and curling up under his desk.

"Dude?" Kyle asks, and Stan shakes himself out of it.

"This is weird," he concludes. "Not 'cause I'm not into you or anything, 'cause, y'know…"

And Kyle nods, because he does.

"It's just…" he looks off to the side, like he's afraid Kyle's gaze will turn him to stone, and colors in the face. "I'm getting hard."

"Dude," Kyle raises an eyebrow. "I don't know how you and Wendy did it, but I've never really done this before and even_ I_ know that that's what's supposed to happen."

"Not with you," Stan blurted out. "We're friends. If I get hard when you touch me that makes it weird."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Kyle laughs and folds his arms.

"Come on," Stan rolls his eyes. "You don't think this is weird."

"I don't think it even comes close to being a _little_ weird compared to the shit that's happened to us in this fucking town," Kyle shrugs. "But if you're not into it, we can stop."

"Obviously, that's not the problem," Stan says and points down to his crotch. Kyle can see a slight bulge right where Stan's dick is and it makes his insides give a pleasant twist.

"Then what is?" Kyle asks, inching forward, eyes firmly fixed on Stan now. "I'll bet I could make you forget about this whole thing if you let me touch you."

"Kyle," Stan whispers, a warning, as Kyle presses a kiss just below his jaw. The sound goes right to Kyle's dick and he smiles, because Stan's obviously hot and bothered now and it's kind of awesome. He likes that he can do this to Stan. It makes him feel like he's got his own special powers. He palms Stan through his pants again and delights in the little gasp that comes out of his mouth.

"Lie down," Kyle murmurs against the shell of Stan's ear and, Jesus, Stan obeys. He wonders if he's always had this power over Stan, and supposes that he must have. Kyle's the asshole; Stan's the nice guy who's always ready and willing to help you, even if it inconveniences him. The second someone or something stops being of use to him, Kyle drops it or them like a hot potato and fucks off to find something better.

Right now he doesn't think he'll ever find anything better than Stan twitching beneath the feather-light touch of his fingers. He's wearing the shirt Shelly bought for him back when she'd first been admitted to Boulder, and it's all faded and worn because secretly Stan kind of loves Shelly and the shirt reminds him that she's his big sister and he's her little brother. It's kind of sweet, when Kyle dwells on it.

But Kyle doesn't want to dwell on that right now. All he wants to do is unbutton Stan's jeans and get down to it. His hands are surprisingly deft, and that's when he realizes that he's not nervous, because this is Stan. He never had to be nervous around Stan, because, of everyone on the goddamned planet, this was the one guy who unequivocally and undoubtedly _got_ him.

Stan lifts his hips so Kyle can tug his pants down and he may have moaned when the cold air hit him at his hottest part, but Kyle couldn't hear much of anything over the sound of his own saliva forming as they sat there.

When he'd asked Kenny about this kind of thing, Kyle had always kind of thought it was stupid when Kenny said that people's bits made him hungry, but that's what it was. It kind of felt a little like when his blood sugar dipped and his mom brought him a sandwich. It felt like those few seconds before the plate hit the table, when Kyle's mind and body made the connection that he was about to eat, and he felt like he'd be able to eat thirty sandwiches but never be entirely satisfied.

That's how Stan's cock makes him feel—like he could have it every day for the rest of his life and it would never, ever be enough.

He ducks down and, without too much thought, takes Stan into his hand. He revels in the little sound he most definitely hears Stan make that time, and concludes that he must hear Stan make every sound he's capable of, and he has to do it right now. He works Stan in a loose grip, smiling every time he gasps with a different flick of the wrist, whines with every change in pressure.

He doesn't even register that he's got a dick in his mouth until he hears Stan actually moan and realizes that, _shit_, he's sucking off his best friend. Like, he's really doing this.

And he's not even upset about it.

He keeps a steadying hand on Stan as he bobs his head experimentally. Heidi had done this for him once before, so it wasn't entirely a foreign concept… except that giving kind of was. Kenny had told him once that he craved it, that he loved how people tasted down there, boys and girls, but that it wasn't exactly a commonly shared belief. Kyle hadn't particularly cared for the taste of Heidi, but Stan was not bad.

God, he really needed to stop talking to Kenny about sex stuff.

"_Shit_," Stan bucks up the second Kyle pulls off of him to catch his breath. He's kind of got a chronically stuffy nose, which kind of makes breathing difficult when he has a mouthful of anything, let alone his best friend. Stan props himself up on his elbows, looking a little like he's just seen a ghost, as he gasps for breath. Kyle gives him a malevolent little smile and gets rid of his pants entirely, tossing them somewhere of little consequence as he settles between Stan's legs and ducks in for more.

Okay, Kenny might be onto something there... He kind of wants this taste in the back of his mouth all the time.

He gags a few times, and he can't get Stan to stop fucking up into his mouth for the life of him, no matter how firmly he holds his hips down, but when Stan fists his hands in Kyle's hair and gives a choked little sound in the back of his throat, it's all worth it. Kyle fights a smile as Stan's legs start twitching, even kind of likes it when his thighs box in his ears and he's enveloped entirely in that smell that's so quintessentially _Stan_, as he comes into his mouth.

Stan's too busy basking in the afterglow to see Kyle pull his trashcan over to them and spit into it what hadn't spilled out of his mouth and down his chin.

"Feel any better?" he asks and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Stan doesn't respond so much as he garbles out some nonsense and sits up. Kyle's too euphoric, too high from doing something he literally cannot believe he's just done, to notice that he's just about as hard as he's ever been and straining at the confines of his pants.

Stan notices, though, and moves to remedy the situation almost immediately.

He doesn't push Kyle down to the floor, doesn't tell him to shut up, just kind of kisses him and works at unbuttoning and unzipping and soon his hand is wrapped firmly around Kyle and it's all happening way too fast but this is a juggernaut of a fucking situation and resistance is futile at this point.

Kyle rests his forehead on Stan's shoulder as he feels that hand work at him. His fingers are calloused from years of playing guitar, but they seem to be more practiced and sure in their movement than Kyle's had been… Kyle suspects it has something to do with the fact that his fine motor skills are confined to punching numbers into a graphing calculator while Stan's fingers spend their spare time flying over the neck of a guitar.

"This okay?" Stan asks, and Kyle can't find it in himself to do anything but whimper and nod. This is a thousand times more satisfying than anything he's ever experienced before, sandwiches included.

Then Stan stops for a second, and Kyle thinks he might be having second thoughts, that he may have just decided that this was the worst idea they'd ever had and was about to leave Kyle hanging.

As it turns out, he's only paused long enough to spit in his hand before he returns to his ministrations. Kyle makes an embarrassingly high-pitched whine in the back of his throat as Stan's hand flies over him, quick and deliberate. Kyle kind of wonders if this is how he does it to himself, short and fast because he knows his mom could walk in at any moment and try to rope him into starting a jigsaw puzzle with her or something. Kyle likes to take it slow, teasing himself until he completely loses himself in it.

Stan was going too fast and Kyle couldn't help but squirm at the sensory overload. Between him pulling off to spit into his hand again, the way his eyes stayed fixed on what he could see of Kyle's erection peeking out of his underwear, and the way he leaned into nip at Kyle's ear, there was no way Kyle was going to last much longer.

"Like that?" Stan asks, voice thick and husky. Kyle nods vigorously and turns his head so that they're kissing, all sloppy and unpracticed but Kyle recognizes it as one of the most incredible things ever.

Then Stan squeezes him in just the right way, in a way that's taken Kyle years to master, and that's it. He buries his face in Stan's neck and groans, riding out his orgasm right into Stan's fist until there's nothing left but cotton in his brain and a strong desire to curl up and sleep right there on the floor.

"Wow," Stan says, about as breathless as Kyle feels.

"Yeah," Kyle nods and looks down at himself. Miraculously, he's done very little collateral damage; in fact, the evidence of what had just transpired was mostly all on Stan. He was looking at his hand curiously before he looked up at Kyle with _a __face_.

"Was it really that nasty?" he asks. Kyle furrows his brow as he tucks himself back into his pants and buttons up, entirely unsure of how to answer the question.

"Not really," he decides. "Just spat it out 'cause… I don't know. Just 'cause, I guess."

Stan nods and tentatively licks at the mess on his hands. He pulls a face that makes Kyle laugh really hard and wipes it on one of the socks in Kyle's hamper.

"Nothing against you, dude," Stan laughs too. "But fuck, that's weird shit."

And Kyle laughs harder because Stan's still naked from the waist down and they'd kind of just had sex (or did sex things) and what the _fuck_ in the name of all that was holy was going on?

Stan is apparently above going to look for wherever Kyle has thrown his pants and is content to laze on the floor, looking contemplative. Kyle smiles and leans in to kiss Stan, who kisses back.

Brief as it was, Kyle can taste himself on Stan's tongue, just like he's pretty sure Stan can taste himself as he licks softly at the inside of Kyle's mouth.

"What's this make us?" Stan asks softly as Kyle pulls away from him. Kyle purses his lips and looks Stan right in the eye, searching for something that he's not entirely sure he'll find… mostly because he doesn't know what it is. He settles on another kiss, quicker this time, and runs his fingers through the slightly damp mop of messy black hair that he kind of loves.

"We're Stan and Kyle," he says. "Fucking or not, promise me we'll always just be that."

Stan smiles, because this is apparently the right answer, and nods.

"Promise."


End file.
